14.

Tombs, with bare white piteous bones protruded,
  Shroudless, down the loose collapsing banks,
Crumble, from their constant place detruded,
  That the sea devours and gives not thanks. 
Graves where hope and prayer and sorrow brooded
  Gape and slide and perish, ranks on ranks.

15.

Rows on rows and line by line they crumble,
  They that thought for all time through to be. 
Scarce a stone whereon a child might stumble
  Breaks the grim field paced alone of me. 
Earth, and man, and all their gods wax humble
  Here, where Time brings pasture to the sea.

VII.

1.

But afar on the headland exalted,
  But beyond in the curl of the bay,
From the depth of his dome deep-vaulted
  Our father is lord of the day. 
Our father and lord that we follow,
  For deathless and ageless is he;
And his robe is the whole sky’s hollow,
    His sandal the sea.

2.

Where the horn of the headland is sharper,
  And her green floor glitters with fire,
The sea has the sun for a harper,
  The sun has the sea for a lyre. 
The waves are a pavement of amber,
  By the feet of the sea-winds trod
To receive in a god’s presence-chamber
    Our father, the God.

3.

Time, haggard and changeful and hoary,
  Is master and God of the land: 
But the air is fulfilled of the glory
  That is shed from our lord’s right hand. 
O father of all of us ever,
  All glory be only to thee
From heaven, that is void of thee never,
    And earth, and the sea.

4.

O Sun, whereof all is beholden,
  Behold now the shadow of this death,
This place of the sepulchres, olden
  And emptied and vain as a breath. 
The bloom of the bountiful heather
  Laughs broadly beyond in thy light
As dawn, with her glories to gather,
    At darkness and night.

5.

Though the Gods of the night lie rotten
  And their honour be taken away
And the noise of their names forgotten,
  Thou, Lord, art God of the day. 
Thou art father and saviour and spirit,
  O Sun, of the soul that is free
And hath grace of thy grace to inherit
    Thine earth and thy sea.

6.

The hills and the sands and the beaches,
  The waters adrift and afar,
The banks and the creeks and the reaches,
  How glad of thee all these are! 
The flowers, overflowing, overcrowded,
  Are drunk with the mad wind’s mirth: 
The delight of thy coming unclouded
    Makes music of earth.

7.

I, last least voice of her voices,
  Give thanks that were mute in me long
To the soul in my soul that rejoices
  For the song that is over my song. 
Time gives what he gains for the giving
  Or takes for his tribute of me;
My dreams to the wind everliving,
    My song to the sea.